On Returning to Sfat

Sfat-Safed, city of medieval mystics, the highest-situated city in Israel, was the goal of my trip this time.  I was there in 1965, but barely.  My father and I sat on a low wall while my mother and a family friend tried to find the “main synagogue,” the one famous for the mystical rabbis.  I think they were looking for the Luria synagogue, named for Rabbi Isaac Luria; I think they found it, but it was closed in preparation for services.  This time, I found the Caro synagogue, nestled along with several others, Luria’s included, on a narrow covered street lined with artsy-craftsy shops.  It’s almost hard to find these synagogues unless you’re looking for them, for their narrow entrance gates are easily overlooked amid the assault of jewelry and Judaica shops, artists’ kiosks and street peddlers.  Like Luria’s in 1965, Carol’s was closed in preparation for the Sabbath.

Sfat has burgeoned, not just grown, in 47 years.  Modern apartment buildings march down the hillside south of the old quarter.  The old town is thoroughly picturesque and we wandered the cramped streets happily, climbing steps and slipping down the stones worn smooth by centuries as we tried to find our way around.  Ultra-Orthodox Jews have made peace with the artists who have discovered Sfat and made it their homes, studios and inspiration since the late 1950s.  Some of the artists are themselves observant.  I was amused to see Hasidic men in all kinds of dress.  Although most wear the traditional 19^th-century outfits of their founding rabbis, I saw young men in T-shirts and tank tops, their payiss brushing their shoulders.  Women, of course, never stray from modesty: long-sleeved shirts, long skirts and stockings even in the May heat.

The artwork, alas, did not fulfill my hopes.  I leafed through a few prints and drawings and ducked into many galleries and workshops, but nothing moved me to purchase.  There were many colorful designs in Hebrew calligraphy, any of which would make a fine decoration, yet they struck me as verging on mass-produced.  Perhaps it was the effect of seeing so much artwork on sale in one small place.  I didn’t care for the pottery or glasswork I saw and I couldn’t help wondering if there was some street, some tucked-away studio I had missed.  But really, why would a genuinely talented artist be somewhere where the public couldn’t find him or her?

The drive to Sfat wound through hair-raising hairpin turns as the valley of Kinneret/Lake Tiberias receded below.  The landscape is not beautiful, as England or southern France would be deemed beautiful; rather, it’s dramatic, even brooding in places where the rocky outcroppings defy cultivation.  It’s hard to imagine people scratching out enough of a living to build a civilization, yet build it they did.  As I wrote in my previous post, history is made in prosaic places.  The hills and valleys of the Galilee are a very muted backdrop to the vivid human dramas that were played out in and upon them.